Having Witnessed
by wildlywalkingwest
Summary: Greg Lestrade makes an observation.


Greg Lestrade doesn't pretend, not even to himself, that he's anywhere near as observant as Sherlock Holmes. He's also nowhere near as uptight or as dickish, but that, he supposes, is beside the point. In any case, Greg never thought he would have something over Sherlock on account of his own watchfulness.

And then there was last Thursday.

It had been an unremarkable case with the exception of one particular suspect, whose utter obnoxiousness had driven Greg to self-medicate to the extent that he forgot the details of much of her account after the true culprit was found. John and Sherlock had been along, as always, and as always Sherlock had been a prig and John had had to be responsible for his rudeness, and by the time they'd all left to go home everyone had wanted to kill each other. As always.

But it was during the bizarre in-between period, when the case was closed but the paperwork wasn't, that it had happened. Greg, attempting to dodge said paperwork, had taken an extended coffee break, during which he'd strolled through three floors of the Scotland Yard building and stopped in to have a chat with colleagues whose names he didn't even know. His detour took him past the room in which Sherlock and John had happened to stow themselves away. There was too much noise going on around him to make out what they were saying, but they appeared to be in some kind of argument, and that was always amusing, so Greg had discreetly taken up a place along the wall of the hallway, empty except for himself and a plant, to observe.

Sherlock was speaking. Sherlock seemed as though he was always speaking. And John was attempting to make some kind of point, which Sherlock very clearly was paying no attention to. Then Sherlock had gone on to say something else, and while he was in mid-sentence, John took a hold of his lapel and pulled him down and, without any kind of overture, kissed him straight on the mouth.

The first thing Greg realised was that Sherlock had shut up, because that was so rare in itself that it warranted noticing. He went on to realise that Sherlock was remaining shut up, and that the reason for this was that he was too occupied in sucking face to be running his trap, and that this was of course not so atypical, until he came to the revelation that this was atypical, indeed _very_ atypical, and that nothing short of _what in God's name_ was happening.

He'd retreated in a state of shock and spent the rest of the day debating whether it had been a hallucination. After all, he had been up awfully late the previous night and had woken up very early in the morning. Maybe he was so fatigued that his mind had decided to play a trick on him. It wasn't out of the question.

But over the course of the next few days, and he had gotten some very good sleep and had been eating proper meals, he noticed… things. Enough things that he couldn't possibly be hallucinating all of them, unless he really was insane (and admittedly he'd suspected that he was). They weren't very obvious, but they were things, and things were enough of an indication to him that there was some other thing going on there.

Greg doesn't care. He's not that nosy. Oh, there's no use denying it, no, he's very, _very_ nosy, and he's practically dying to have some kind of confirmation of what he and Donovan had taken a not-particularly-serious bet on six years prior. They _must_ be. But there's no way. Sherlock bloody Holmes - it's impossible. And John has never struck him, well, _like that_. Should he just say gay? Is that offensive? He isn't sure.

He knows it's rude to ask. He knows his manners, for God's sake. But when he and John are standing about watching Sherlock drive himself insane over some obscure hint Greg doesn't bother to try and interpret, and when Sherlock suddenly cries, "Oh!" and whips around to John and says, "Dinner. Angelo's. Seven o'clock," before dashing off, and when John smiles in some oddly clandestine way and says, "Alright," he can't possibly refrain.

"So," he says, and then in all his silver-tongued eloquence: "Uh. Dinner."

John looks off to the side like he does when he's making a conscientious effort not to insult someone by producing a terribly judgemental expression. "Dinner. Right."

"Oh," says Greg. "That doesn't really seem like his, uh… his thing."

"Well, not always."

"Oh," says Greg, again, nodding to himself. "Do you and he do that often?"

"Sometimes, when everyone's through with a case, yeah."

"Right, right. So just like normal, then."

"Why shouldn't it be like normal?" John says, frowning at his feet.

"Well - so nothing's different? Considering, you know."

At last, John turns to look at him, with a rather frustrated expression. "I don't know?"

"Um," says Greg. "I don't want to be indiscreet, if - anything."

"Indiscreet?"

"Er. Not indiscreet. I meant - not… discreet."

"Look, Greg, I really don't know what it is you're getting at."

"Are you shagging him?"

John gives him such a look - as if he's just tasted something awfully unpleasant in an otherwise tolerable salad. Greg wishes he were made of better tomatoes. "Am I shagging him," says John.

 _Hell_ , and now he's being made to repeat it. Grimacing, he says, "Uh. Yeah, that's what I - I said that. Unfortunately."

"Well." There's a very long pause. "Yes."

"Oh," says Greg, yet again, and he tries very very hard to block the series of images this answer calls to mind. Christ, why did he ask? "That's, um. That's fine, and everything, you know."

"Yes, thanks," says John.

They stand staring at anything but one another. Greg has never been more uncomfortable. With nothing else to say, he decides on, "So he must be hellish."

Thankfully, John - though sharply and curtly, as usual - laughs at that. "Of course he is."

* * *

How _strange_. What a strange, strange matter. Who would have known? Well, actually, everyone had known - guessed, at least - but still, who would have known?

He's pondering it now, watching the two of them act completely coy, as if nothing is going on. Oh, but now he _knows_! They can't pretend at being platonic in front of him. And, admittedly, he's told Donovan and Anderson. And the rest of his division. So they all know as well, but that's mostly beside the point - though it does make him feel a bit guilty for gossiping to them all over a box of doughnuts in the conference room the previous morning.

So now he knows, and they know, and John knows that he knows. But he's not sure that John has told Sherlock that he knows, and he feels awkward knowing something about Sherlock that the man himself doesn't know, and so he decides to bring it up.

He tells himself to be more direct than he was with John, but on this particular day, as is the case on every other day, Sherlock's already being unfriendly with him when he approaches, and he cows at asking him right out. The absolutely brilliant question he comes up with is, "Have you ever eaten dinner with someone?"

And Sherlock heaves the heaviest sigh a human can manage and says, "George, I'm well aware that you know about the state of affairs between John and me."

"Oh. Well that's settled, then." He pauses. "And it's Greg."

It's very strange - he's thought this already, he's aware - and in a way a bit disturbing, because he can't help but wonder what in hell kinds of proclivities the terribly reckless and slightly insane Sherlock Holmes himself has, but it's easy to get accustomed to, and it's not like it's even all that noticeable. Aside from that one Thursday, it's nothing more than the occasional brush of their arms or hands (never held, he comes to realise), or an interpersonal distance just small enough to pause at, or a complimentary word, the kind one wouldn't reserve for a just-friend; but what makes it stand out is that it's _Sherlock_ , of all people in the world Sherlock bloody Holmes, standing closer to John Watson than he should stand and speaking softly to him and giving him intent glances and earnest smiles and, for God's sake, being _in love_ with someone. What an odd, awfully odd thing. But he has to admit that it's a bit sweet.

He isn't very much of a romantic. All that dissipated when he turned thirty and realised no woman had ever loved him. But he finds that he's bizarrely happy for them, because they seem bizarrely happy, and because all that unresolved whatever is finally gone and it had been quite awkward in the meantime.


End file.
